Broken Crown
by x XRoweenaJAugustineX x
Summary: Macon Waters was Robert Baratheon's best loved son, born in the days after the Targaryen's fall, he grew up in King's Landing under his father's eye and the queen's resentful glare. When the old Hand dies and the new Hand comes to the Capitol with his daughter's, Macon must rise above his bastard name, for how can a bastard ever dream of courting a lady so sweet as Sansa Stark?
1. Prologue: Macon

**Hello! I am RoweenaJAugustine, and with me here is MissMac :D You might remember us from out notable works, such as  
**

**Price of Our Sins, by RoweenaJAugustine  
**and**  
Hear My Fury by MissMac **

**But here we both are, writing a story...TOGETHER! **

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**Prologue**

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Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm would forever be remembered for years to come by the rebellion he led and the bastards he fathered, although no one knew the exact number of them. While many of these bastards would come to be cared for, the lucky few would be given the gift of becoming an acknowledged bastard. Robert did not offer his love or affection to his many children, except for one of his first bastard boys.

Macon.

Macon Waters had once been destined to inherit the Iron Throne, months before he was born. His mother had once been one of the two women Robert Baratheon ever treasured, ever cared for. He held Lady Dahlia Penrose above any whore or tavern wench he'd ever had, but it was Lyanna Stark who he held far above anyone in the world. When the Stark girl died, Lady Dahlia was the first name that came on his lips when his men demanded the name of his queen. His men were pushing him to marry—what king could rule without a queen who could give him strong sons? — and who better than an old friend who'd silently held a torch for him all these years? But their destiny had been changed with one switch move of Tywin Lannister.

Robert had been given his choice of brides after Lyanna Stark had been found dead, but he was young and angered and would have no one else but the beautiful Dahlia Penrose, one of his lesser bannermen's daughter's and his friend since boyhood. When he had met his bride-to-be after so many years apart, Robert had been preparing to storm King's Landing, to end his rebellion and exact his revenge on the dragons which repeatedly wronged all of Westeros. He had taken his frustration and anger and pain and turned it into a strength that would allow his vengeance to be fulfilled. Lady Penrose had lain with Robert the first night he came to her castle—enchanted by the handsome rebel— and all the nights after, with the promises of being his wife and queen dancing through her mind. The young, innocent girl was easy prey for Robert, who hadn't known how easy young hearts were broken.

It was not to be; life is no song, life is no fairytale as the sweet Lady Dahlia soon learned. She was young and innocent when Robert suddenly proclaimed he would marry her. She was but a child, with wonderful dreams of being a queen, of marrying some handsome rogue. When the old lion decided to join the winning side, he demanded his only daughter marry Robert instead, else his forces remain unused and in the west. Robert cast Dahlia aside without a second glance, for although he held her above other women, his vengeance for his beloved Lyanna was all he truly cared for.

Robert Baratheon took her innocence, her childhood with such ease, without looking back to see what he had left behind. Her dreams and heart were ripped to shreds when he married Cersei Lannister, the most beautiful girl in all the kingdoms. How could she compare? She was fatter than the beautiful lioness, her house was smaller and poorer, her hair was common brown rather than spun gold, and she was now ruined. For nothing...nothing but a man's momentary comfort.

She never thought she would have been so replaceable—for how could people be so expendable? — and it suddenly occurred to her that she had never meant anything to Robert, not really, maybe not ever. At best she had been a distraction from cold and lonely nights, but never a girl he could love. Lyanna Stark had taken his love with her when she died. Somehow Dahlia was comforted by that—let Cersei Lannister have a callous, unfeeling marriage with him, let her suffer through it. But the other half of her was angry. Bitter. How dare he use her like a common whore, and then promise her a marriage and crown as though it would all be made better then. The hatred for the black bearded rebel-King faded into hurt and grief at all she'd lost—all so quickly—when her moons blood ceased to come.

The months were cold and long there in her father's castle in the Storm Lands, hidden away in shame and embarrassment. Her belly grew larger, her baby kicked and rolled inside her, giving her no rest. Father had forbidden her to write letters to Robert, "He's a king" he said with a scowl, "the last thing he needs is some slut claiming her whelp is his." She flinched. Father had never been so nasty to her...before. Dahlia endured months alone in that castle, her mother would not see her, and her brothers agreed with their father she had been an idiot, although in a far kinder way. Yet one morning as she stroked her bulging belly she could not endure another moment and wrote Robert a letter, pushing away fear of her father's wrath. Her babe needed its father; it needed a home where it could grow, safe and happy without the terrible glower of its grandfather on them.

Although the letter was meant for Robert's eyes, it was the Hand who first discovered the bastard that had been created from lies and lonely nights. It was by lucky chance that Jon Arryn was given the letter, for his Hand was just. He had pondered of the situation, knowing that the Realm was still hanging in a fragile balance from the recent rebellion, knowing that a woman who was _not_ Queen was carrying the first-born of the King would destroy what little control over Westeros Robert had. They'd call him 'defiler', seducing some young girl for his own pleasures and that would breed more hatred for the new king. After many days and nights spent staring at the letter, Jon addressed Robert of the situation.

"Your Grace, when you took Lady Penrose to your bed, it was under the pretense that the two of you were betrothed." Robert had remained silent, even half-drunk he would not sprout lies to the man he saw as a father. "A bastard grows in her womb, larger each day. _Your_ child, you know. She wrote to you, begging for the child to be taken in, to be cared for. She spoke nothing of herself, only the babe." Robert had sat across from Jon as the Hand spoke of options, each scenario sounding worse than the last. It had been decided that the girl, who carried the would-be heir in her womb, would be brought to King's Landing before a decision would be made.

As Lady Penrose traveled to the capital, her child refused to wait to be born. It was with the most brutal of pains that she bore a wailing boy into the world on her journey. Born at the side of a road, she thought with a laugh. Dahlia could not stop staring at her beautiful black-haired son, even as the beauty of King's Landing, and then the Red Keep, came into her view. Nothing in the world existed over the next few weeks except for her son, for her little Macon. How could something so perfect, have come from such a horrid situation?

Dahlia had not been made to see Robert for nearly a week after arriving, staying shut away in her room with Macon. No expense had been spared for her, and she for once felt like the Queen she had once been told she would be. When the knock arrived at her door, Lady Penrose had been shocked to find both the Hand and the King had come to see her in her chambers. She might have been ashamed at her rumpled and tired state, but Robert's appearance kept her from lingering on her useless shame. She took in the King's condition, and saw none of the man she'd been half in love with in him. This made her sad. Where was the king she thought to one day call her own? Robert was half-drunk and half-mad, but she would not discover until shortly later that cause of his distress.

Three days prior the Queen had given birth to a son, Robert's first legitimate son. And just the evening before, the infant had been taken away to the crypts as Robert beat his hands bloody against the wall. For even a man who led a country into Rebellion, death was not able to be conquered. It was from this state that Robert had visited Lady Penrose, with Jon Arryn at his side. When she offered her son to Robert, the man had taken one look at the healthy, breathing, _living_ child and made his declaration.

"This boy may be a bastard, but I claim him as mine."

And with those words, Robert Baratheon had damned Macon Waters and his sweet lady mother to a life worse than Hell.

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For over a year, Lady Penrose lived her life and took care of her son with relative ease and in lavish comfort. Her rooms were large and looked over Blackwater Bay, often she and Macon would watch the boats sail past until the sun set over the sea. He was such a jolly little thing, so very easy to love. Her little prince, the heir to the throne so long as Cersei Lannister never gave Robert another boy. Robert loved Macon, she could see it in the way he spent time with him, and the way he gave the boy so much of his time. Macon could be _so much more_ than a bastard or knight or a merchant or a sailor, and Dahlia prayed everyday he rose above his lot in life. Every day she hoped the gods never gave Cersei Lannister another child, never gave her another son. That way, it would be assured her son remained safe and had a chance to be more than she ever thought he could be.

Cersei Lannister...there had been a time, not very long ago, when Lady Penrose pitied her; she'd married Robert for a crown and was sentenced to a life of cold misery with him, and she'd lost her first child too make it worse. But soon it became very plain that that woman did not want her pity. Once, as she made her way through the halls of the Red Keep, that golden haired shrew and her mangy, honourless brother had cornered her. Thank the gods Macon had not been with her. The Kingslayer stood back and let his sister do the talking, but the threat was clear in the way he held the pommel of his sword (the same one he'd used to kill the Mad King, no doubt): I will not hesitate to stop you if you say something my sister doesn't like.

"Don't you dare think, for one instant, that your bastard will ever be king. You're a whore, a pathetic husk who gave Robert nothing but a bastard with dirty blood. I am the _queen_, and my children will rule. Now take your whelp, and leave the Capitol before you and that thing at your tit meet the fate of Princess Elia and her babe." The queen left her with that, her brother smirking like he should be proud as he followed her down the hall. Lady Penrose was tempted to take the queen's threat to heart, to run with her boy back to her father's castle in the Storm Lands, where it would be cold and cruel, but safe. But she couldn't...she wouldn't give that bitch the satisfaction; she wouldn't run away like the ruined woman they all thought she was. The people of the Storm Lands were hard, weathered by the storms which plundered their lands, and she would not concede defeat, not when Macon had the chance to be so much more than she'd ever hoped him to be. Robert cared more for Macon than he did his wife. So she stayed, and told the king what his wife had done, what she'd threatened.

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Each time Robert had visited Cersei in that year, he had always arrived more drunk than the last she had seen him. But after her confrontation with Lady Penrose, Robert had arrived sober, but no gentler than he was when drunk. The sound of the slap had echoed through the room, but Cersei did not cry out, not for him, not anymore. The queen blocked out his words of reprimand that he used to defend his whore and her babe. What made her so special? What made Robert care for her more than his wife?

He had taken her that night after his angry words were spat out, as if to show her once more that she would always be beneath him, no matter her actions or words, he'd always be in power. As Robert grunted and groaned above her, Cersei allowed her mind to wander, shutting away what was happening and only thinking of what would happen soon. She had yet to tell Robert, but the signs of her pregnancy had started to ail her. Cersei knew in her heart that the babe would be Jaime's, seeing as Robert had been too drunk and too preoccupied in the last year with his bastard son to notice. As the young Queen lay in her bed alone, hours after Robert had left, a change had occurred. What had started on her wedding night, hearing another woman's name spoken in her ear, and what had continued the day her first-born son died, had nearly completed. That night, Cersei changed from a starry-eyed cub into a fierce lioness.

It wasn't until Cersei bore a son with golden hair that Lady Penrose felt danger growing inside the Keep. With each passing day Macon grew to look more like his father, with his deep black hair and shining blue eyes and his temper was starting to show as well. When whispers of the King's new son fell on Lady Penrose's ears, telling of the golden-hair of Joffrey Baratheon, the Queen's words came back to haunt her. Lady Penrose did not take Cersei for a liar, and everyone knew that a Lannister paid their debts. It was only a matter of time before Macon would be in danger, driving Lady Penrose into Jon Arryn's chambers, begging to be sent away. He had assured her that Robert would not have it for he did care for her son, and would forbid her from leaving King's Landing. Lady Penrose left the Hand's Tower, no more comforted than she was entering it.

But weeks later a raven arrived from her father, one that Lady Penrose thought would ensure both Macon's safety and her happiness. For years to come, she would always regret her response to that letter, would torture herself every night for accepting Lord Godfrey Trant's offer of marriage.

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And so life went on, as it always does. She married Godfrey in a small sept in the city. It was not a grand ceremony, and it was not even in the Great Sept of Baelor, because a king's mistress does not deserve such finery. She'd never met Lord Godfrey Trant before; all she knew of him was that his father had died in the Rebellion and that he was thirty and two and that his hair was greying. When she met him he was not romantic and didn't spout ballads of love to her. She was thankful for that. His civility towards her was more welcome than any false affection. He made no acknowledgement to her son, but it would be stupid to assume he would ignore him completely.

"It's a miracle he even took you," her father spat the day of her wedding. "Marching about the Red Keep as though you were the queen herself, when you have not a husband to call your own. Soft headed girl, you." She ignored him. Lord Godfrey would take her back to his home and keep her son safe, even if he doesn't mean to, he will take her son away from the Capitol and put him under his castle's protection, and that would be enough. That would be enough...

Lord Godfrey was a...cold man, she could say. It was as though affection was never given to him, and so he knew not how to give it. The night of their wedding was cold and dispassionate, but she didn't mind much, her mind only of how her son would be safe with this marriage. Only they didn't retreat back to the Storm Lands after the wedding...they remained there in the Capitol, her lord husband moving into the rooms which she and Macon had once called theirs and theirs alone.

"He's the king's bastard, ev'ryone knows it," Godfrey grumbled to her one night when she demanded to know why they stayed where she and her son were most vulnerable. "Don't deny it, woman. I'll be damned if I go back to my family's seat and take _him_ with me. I'd rather leave him here and take you with me, but you love the little bastard so. It will not please me to have a cold and weeping wife. We stay here, until the boy's old nuff to handle 'imself or we find a good marriage for 'im."

It was almost a kindness, but not quite. He hated Macon; she could see it in the way he looked at him, and the way he looked at the king. He hated her son who was not his own. Would he love him better, if Macon was his? Would he look at her like his wife and not his duty, if Macon was his? For the first time, Lady Penrose—well, Lady Trant now—cursed her boy's father for being who he was, a whoring drunkard King, who would have shamed whatever wife he'd had—weather it was her, Lyanna or someone else. What she once pitied Cersei Lannister for, she now had condemned herself to: a loveless marriage.

The Capitol which once held such lavish beauty to her before became a place where danger lurked behind every corner, in every shadow and in every stranger's smile. The queen had spies everywhere, and a low born would do about anything for a purse of gold. Even kill an innocent child. She kept Macon close, entrusted his welfare with few, and rained affection on him because who knew what would happen? But every time she held her son close, every time she showered him with affection just to see him smile his beautiful toothy grin, her husband's resentment grew a little more. She wished she could make Lord Godfrey happy, wished she could see him smile at her, but she couldn't. She couldn't stop loving her boy, to make her husband happy, and so she suffered for it.

Lady Penrose had taken her suffering as her punishment from the Gods for being foolish, for being weak. She had tried to remain strong; from the day she was told she was with child, until the night she laid awake next to her new husband. But the next morning, her first morning as a wife, had proved that Lord Godrey was no savior. It was a slow change at first, with Lady Penrose thinking he was just adjusting to life as a husband and that the anger in his voice would fade as they spent time with each other. It may have happened that way, no one but the Gods new for sure, but because of Macon, the walking and now talking proof that his wife had been soiled, Lord Godfrey felt a fool. What started as harsh words quickly changed to harsh hands. Lady Penrose suffered in silence, never speaking of the abuse to any for fear that it would only become worse. Living in fear, both of outsiders and the man she shared a bed with, had changed Lady Penrose into a docile, withdrawn woman. The only one she was able to find comfort in was Macon, even as they never spoke of the raised voices or bruises that marred her skin. She never blamed her son though, only herself.

Macon had little time with his mother's husband, but the small amount was enough for him to understand that Lord Godfrey hated him. The young boy, who would often be found spending time alone with the King no less, had had never understood why Lady Penrose warned him to stay quiet and out of sight when Lord Godfrey was around, always sending the poor boy to bed before the Lord returned to their chambers. It wasn't until many years later that Macon discovered why his mother feared Lord Godfrey as much as she did.

He had seen Lord Godfrey raise a hand to his mother but once in his life, one terrifying night when he had been a lad of seven. Macon heard it many times before, but somehow that night was different. When he awoke to shouting, he rose from his bed, pressed flush against the wall, hiding, watching, listening until he turned the corner and saw his mother and her lord husband down before the fire.

Macon didn't even remember the argument; he forgot everything when he saw the man raise his big hand to his mother, and watched in horror as it struck down onto her soft red cheek, knocking her down on the floor. The man was drunk, Macon could see it in his stumbling steps as he began to raise his hand again—

"Stop!" he had shouted, and suddenly he was down before the fire too, pushing the tall skinny man from his mother, and when he stumbled away, Macon was never more terrified when he realized it was Lord Godfrey he'd pushed. But instead of beating him, or dragging him out of the Keep kicking and screaming, and throwing him out into the cold with a promise to kill him if he ever returned, Lord Godfrey only stood, straightening himself into a dignified stance. His mother wept and raised a shaking hand to grip her son's arm, just as terrified as to what her husband would do to her sweet son, who'd only been defending her.

Lord Godfrey only stared at him. Macon was too young a boy to hold such an intimidating stare and turned to find comfort from his mother. She pulled him close, her tears wetting his black hair. As she held him, rocking him in her arms like a babe, Lord Godfrey staring at him almost sadly, Macon suddenly felt ashamed. He should be stronger, he should be a man. Maybe then Lord Godfrey would love him.

After that, Macon never clung to his mother again.

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Once again, this story is being written by MissMac and RoweenaJAugustine

PS: For hardcore Throners, as I've dubbed them, House Penroses' seat is Parchments which is far from King's Landing by the sea, but for the sake of the story, let's pretend it isn't :D

Please review and tell us how it's going so far and leave any suggestions or comments ;D

TATA!


	2. Chapter One

**Hello! :D Us again. So, yes to clarify, it's a Sansa/OMC**

**Thanks soooo much for giving our story the time of day, and please leave a comment when you can ;D**

**Also, there is another award thingy for Game of Thrones goin' on called the Game of Thrones Summer Awards, and it's hosted by Maddie Rose Check it out if you please :)**

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**Chapter One**

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Macon was grateful for the unusually quiet halls that day. He knew that his father and the royal party were expected to return at any moment, and he was already preparing to return to his regular activities. Ser Loras would be returning soon, from his family back in Highgarden with the arrival of the king, and Macon dreaded when he'd have to return to his duties as a squire. It had been his Uncle Renly that had assured the arrangement years ago, but Macon did not know why Loras continued to put up with him as his squire.

The Knight of the Flowers had left not long after the King and rode to Highgarden to visit his family, but had mercifully left Macon in the Capitol. Both Renly and Loras had known that Lady Dahlia was soon to deliver and gave Macon leave to stay by her side, knowing that Lord Godfrey would have nothing to do with the babe until it survived longer than a few days. Just another reason for Macon to hold hatred for his mother's husband.

Throughout his childhood, Macon had been shown attention from Robert, who would take him hunting, oversee his sparring lessons or even visit him and his mother's apartments a time or two. But Godfrey had always suspected that the attention was a ploy for the King to bed Dahlia once again. The Lord had said as much to Dahlia, to which she denied every accusation and lie that her husband yelled in his drunken rage. Macon had slowly come to realize that it was because of his own actions that Dahlia would be punished.

If he mucked up as a squire, or got into some squabble which ended in fists, or disobeyed Lord Godfrey, his mother would reap the consequences. Godfrey would never touch him, because who knew what they king would do if he beat his favorite son? Macon hated it, being stuck between wanting to prove himself to his father and needing to obey Godfrey to keep his mother safe. At a young age Macon was surrounded by the worst of men, leading him down a path of anger and hatred.

Dahlia had always said that was why Robert showed Macon any attention, to see the true nature of a Baratheon. She said he reminded her so much of Robert when he was young, a sentiment which Macon despised. Macon hated his temper, hated the fury that he had bubbling beneath his veins. It drove him to trouble easily, and he hated it even more when the taunts thrown his way would so easily drive him to anger. It was Macon's anger which led him to anger Lord Godfrey, and his anger would cause his mother's pain. It seemed that only his mother was able to tame his fury while nearly everyone was able to invoke it.

As Macon made his way down to the streets, his mind flashed back to his mother. She had been in the throes of labor when he had been rushed from the room, the old Septa telling him that he was too old to be at his mother's side. Macon knew the old woman's words to be true, but they still brought about a feeling of shame. Nearly a man and still Macon stayed close to his mother, never clinging to her as he would when a boy, but never far lest she needed him. Other boys made fun of him for that, would call him '_Mummy's boy'_ but he loved his mother too much to let their words bother him.

Macon kept his few coins in a little pouch in his hand, always clasped tightly in a fist because he knew how desperate, people could get in the streets of King's Landing. When he was about twelve, he'd been sent down here by Ser Loras on an errand to the smiths, and had ended up beating another boy bloody for trying to steal the money the knight had entrusted him with. That was his first real fight and even now he marveled at how much he liked it, the feel of power, of control. He'd never tell his dear, gentle mother about this, but he had a feeling she already knew.

The southern sun was hot as it always was and Macon felt himself sweat through his cotton tunic. He walked from the Red Keep farther and farther, not knowing where he was going, but not really caring. He'd learned when he was eleven that the birthing process was long, and although he wished he were back in the Keep with his mother, he had to waste time away from her until his little brother or sister came into the world. Screaming with strong lungs, he hoped.

He passed merchants and vendors crowing out their product, little children passed him, purposefully bumping against him in the hopes of stealing his purse. He saw a woman with a big spotted snake draped around her shoulders, and a basket for coin at her feet and a whore leaning against the wall of a brothel, her long smooth legs peeking out from her thin dress teasingly. Macon's mouth went dry.

"Hello, love." She purred when he passed. "Like some comp'ny? I'd give my time for free for a han'some lad like you." She smelled of dried sweat and faded spices when he passed. Through her thin dress he could see her nipples hardened and tantalizing and the generous curve of her breast. The boy felt himself stirring in his breeches. Macon walked past her, forcing himself to press on through the maze of people, although he was sorely tempted to take her up on her offer. Even as he was there to waste time until his mother gave birth, fucking about with a whore was not in his current interest.

"I've got silks! I got velvets! I got linens! All kindsa fabrics for all kindsa prices!" he heard a man shout from ahead. Macon walked forward, intending just to walk by and not pay the loud vendor any attention, but something stopped him as he prepared to press on. "I got blankets so soft, baby's skin can't compare!" Macon paused, and turned towards the cart eying up the neatly folded and rolled fabrics of all colours on the cart.

"Like some fabric, m'lord?" asked the vendor, a smile stretching across his cracked yellow teeth when he saw the lad's fine clothes. "I could get ye some pretty fabrics for ya lady to make a dress of, so fine she'll demand you return!" he laughed.

"I'm not a lord," Macon replied shortly. "And I have no lady. I need a...a baby's blanket." His voice was quiet, almost embarrassed as he said it.

The merchant clapped his sun browned hands merrily. "Ah! A new father! I've just the thing for you, m'lord!" He turned away. Macon opened his mouth to snap at the annoying man again, but a small child rushed past him and pushed him forward. And then another body bumped his. And another.

"Seven hells!" he cursed aloud. "What is this then?!"

"The king has returned!" someone in the crowds cried.

"The new Hand is comin'!" Cried another.

"King Robert! King Robert approaches!" Macon's face betrayed no emotion as he heard the common folk crowing about his father's return.

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Macon walked up the stone steps to his and his mother's chambers—he'd never think of it as Lord Godfrey's because he had moved in when he wasn't welcome, in Macon's opinion.

Gods, he prayed the babe was alright. His mother, for some reason, couldn't have another child after him, and every time she got pregnant, he prayed to the gods he never really believed in for the child's safety. It was like some cruel joke fate played on Lady Dahlia, because she would get so achingly close, and then fate would snatch it away, leaving her suffering and hollow. Why were the gods so cruel to the most innocent of people? His thumb rubbed the soft blue fabric in his hands, a silken blanket with yellow stars for his baby brother or sister. It was small, and they'd probably outgrow it fast, but it was soft and perfect for a babe just born.

The apartment was eerily quiet when he came in, his heart dropped low in his belly with worry. His mother was not screaming in agony any more, but neither was there a babe's cries echoing off the walls. Macon bit his lip, clutching the blanket tightly in his hands. It was alright, he told himself as he slowly strode to his mother's room. It's alright, she's just calmed him down or she's feeding him...they're alright, nothing's wrong. Nothing's wrong...

But as he quietly tapped on the door, and perked up as it opened by the attending septa, Macon's heart stopped for one singular second, and then broke as the maester turned around holding a little bundle covered with a plain white cloth. He heard his mother sobbing before he saw her, a sad, desolate, broken noise of nothing but pure agony. Why had this happened again? Why were the gods constantly punishing his mother? What in the Seven hells had she _done_ to offend them so? And even if what she did was something ugly and terrible, which he doubted, losing one baby was enough punishment.

"Wait," he whispered as the maester prepared to pass him. The old bald man paused and looked at Macon with what he could only describe as haughtiness. Macon didn't acknowledge it, didn't feel any anger bubble up through the haze of heartsickness. He was too sad, too hurt for the sibling he had lost once again. The bastard boy unfolded the blanket and carefully laid it over the tiny little bundle in the man's arms. He didn't want the little body of the baby to be treated as though it hadn't been...loved, or wanted, as though it was just another baby. Macon closed the door behind the maester, not caring that the septa was still changing the bloodied bed sheets.

As he made his way to his mother's side, Macon saw the way her glassy eyes could not stray from that little bundle of cloth. That little, _little_ bundle...it was only as long as the maester's hands as he carried it away. Dahlia began weeping then. He wouldn't let her see it, said it would make her go mad to see her babe lying so still and pale. But...she wanted to see it! Wanted to hold it, know what it had been...she wanted her baby.

"Mother," Macon murmured, gently gripping her cold hand in his. He hated seeing her cry, especially when he knew he could do nothing to make it better. Macon had been five when his mother suffered through her first stillborn, nine when she miscarried, eleven when his sister was born and died three days after and thirteen and fourteen when she miscarried again. "Mother, please don't cry," a woman's tears unmanned him, they always had. He felt as weak as a little boy when they cried. Give him blood, give him pain, give him fists and kicks and broken bones, and he could handle it all. Tears he could not.

Dahlia continued to weep. Too many times she'd felt this pain, far too many times.

Macon bit his lip, and squeezed her hand, wishing he could make her hurt go away.

Macon stayed like that for hours, simply holding his weeping mother's hand in his until her inconsolable sobs settled into sniffles. The windows had all been covered, and the Septa had long ago left Lady Dahlia in the dark, when Macon allowed a single tear to flow from his eye. That one tear sliding down his cheek held so much pain and anger and hurt and despair in it, that the boy did not need to shed another.

Macon had shown his tears once to Godfrey, just a boy of six years, one evening after another round of painful words had been thrown his way. 'Bastard Macon, the King of Bacon', the stable boys had called him, chanting until the scrawny, black-haired boy could no longer hold his tears. He had run back to his rooms, to his mother, but instead found a drunken Godfrey. "Skin yer knee, little girl? Dropped yer needle?" Godfrey had said, always cruel, always finding ways to turn words into weapons that burned Macon's skin. The young boy had tried to explain, to tell Godfrey that it wasn't his fault but the older, bitter man would hear none of it. Because of this, instead of tears Macon found anger. The next boy who chanted an insult in Macon's direction had quickly found himself with a broken nose.

A gentle knocking at the door pulled Macon from his thoughts, his painful memories of his youth, and he looked to see his mother had drifted into sleep. He pulled his hand slowly away and made his way to the door, his booted feet quiet against the stone floor. He opened the door slowly, at was surprised to see a familiar face staring back at him. He opened the door wider and stepped fully into the hall.

"Lord Varys?"

"Macon, forgive me for interrupting you in your mother's hour of need, but I am in need of a pair of strong arms and a youthful back. Would you indulge an old man by giving your assistance?" the Spider's words were slippery, so oddly spoken that Macon knew there was deceit in them, but knew not where to find it.

Macon would have said no, would have slammed the door in the man's face and returned to his mother's side had it been anyone but Varys. The boy had learned long ago that Varys rarely said or did anything without careful planning. Each move the Spider made was only one part of a bigger plan. For the Lord to arrive at his mother's door and asking him for help was not out of need...it was out of want.

"Am I the only boy in this city with strong arms and a youthful back, my Lord?" Macon crossed his arms in front of his chest, leaning his shoulder against the door frame. "I could give you five names of boys that are stronger than me." Varys gave a small smirk, nodding his head slightly as he brought his arms up in front of his stomach, his hands disappearing inside his large sleeves.

"Must we always play this little game, my Lord?" Macon snorted at the title. "Does being called that bother you? Are you not the son of a Lady?"

"I'm also the _bastard_ son of the King. I will hold no lands and I will not be a Lord held up in a Keep." There was no use in hiding the truth of the matter. This he'd learned long ago.

"Of course, Macon. But only the Gods truly know what our futures will hold." Varys paused for a moment, letting the silence fill the space between them. Macon did not meet his eyes, but Varys hoped that the boy would someday learn to listen to not the words that were spoken, but the meaning behind those words. "The hour grows late as we stand here, the King will be riding through the city any moment. Will you help an old man, Macon Lord of no Lands?"

"You are not old; you just don't want to ruin that pretty tunic you've got on."

"Oh, do you like it? I thought the shade fit the day nicely." Varys showed no signs of humor on his face as he spoke. "Come along, Macon. Your mother will be well taken care of in your absence." And just like that, a maester appeared at the Spider's side, a chain full of medallions around his neck.

Macon was curious as to what Lord Varys wanted, but was loath to leave his mother. And a bastard could not refuse whatever his better asked of him. Roughly, he grabbed the maester's chain in his hand, and gave it a hard yank to pull the aged man closer. "If anything happens to her, you'll be chewing your food with a nice set of wooden teeth." He growled.

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There was a good amount to clear out, but thankfully someone had the mindset to pack the things away before Lord Varys called on him. But he liked the work. It kept his mind from...other things.

Chests of papers and scrolls, books so thick he had to move them one at a time, and, of course, Jon Arryn's clothes and other personal items all had to be packed out and sent to the Eyrie, after Jon Arryn's widow. Strange woman, Macon thought. She'd left with her sickly son mere days after her husband's death, hardly waiting about for his body to begin rotting.

Macon handed the last of the trunks off to a steward not long before the sun began its decent in the sky. Was there a large absence of young able bodied stewards, why Varys had to bother him with moving things which should have been moved out long ago? Jon Arryn died near three moons ago; it was disrespectful of the new Hand to have the _old_ Hand's things _just_ moved out the day he arrived.

Stepping back, Macon surveyed the rooms in quiet fascination. It was odd looking about the fine rooms which were bare of any sign another family once lived there. For Macon, this had always been Jon Arryn's tower, him and his half mad wife and their sickly little boy. He had died so suddenly, so quickly, Macon hardly believed the whispers until he heard it from his own mother's mouth. The Hand had always been kind to him whenever he saw Macon and it had been him who first suggested his name to Renly when Loras Tyrell sought a squire.

Suddenly the apartment door was pushed open but it wasn't a soft looking servant come to order him out before the Starks came to settle in. No, instead it was a stern looking man with an aged face and greying hair, his clothes were too thick and less extravagant than he'd ever seen a man in the Capitol wear. He took no notice of Macon at first, his steel grey eyes were too focussed on the little golden badge in his hand.

At once, men behind him carried in crates and chests and took them to the bed chambers, and they noticed Macon, but knew servants could not speak out against someone higher born than they. He was a bastard, legally as low as they were, but they didn't know that. The bastard boy saw the wolf's head pin clasping his cloak up and knew it must be the new Hand, Lord Eddard Stark. Lord Stark tore his attention away from the Hand's pin in his hand, and immediately took notice of the young boy standing at the center of the chamber.

"And who are you?" he asked with a frown. "I wasn't told there'd be a steward in my chambers upon my arrival." he said. He knew the lad wasn't a steward, his clothes were too fine, and looking at him, he could almost swear it was Robert as a young man. But, Robert's look-alike or no, he didn't trust him. He didn't trust anyone in the Capitol.

"I'm not a servant my lord." Macon paused, not sure what title he should use. "I'm Ser Loars Tyrell's squire." Lord Eddard was about to reply, his mouth opening to respond, when a voice echoing through the hall distracted both men.

"Father!"

Macon cringed at the word spoken so sweetly and with such love. He had never said to word in that way, never addressed anyone as 'father'. Only speaking of Robert as 'Your Grace' and Godfrey as 'my Lord'. He saw the smallest of smiles fall on Lord Stark's face, giving the man a younger, less serious look about him. Macon turned to face the direction of Lord Stark's gaze and saw what had made the new Hand's change in demeanor.

She looked as sweet as her voice sounded, with her innocent eyes and delicate features. Her dress wasn't southern, but a rather simple blue cotton and wool. He bet she'd look pretty in anything though. Macon had seen many women come and go through court, most of them Robert's conquests, and hoped that this girl would not fall prey to his father's lustful ways. She was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, and suddenly her lovely blue eyes were on him. Macon had to look away, embarrassed that the young Lady had caught his stare before she turned her eyes back to her father. Macon backed away from the Hand as her sweet voice filled the room once more.

"Forgive me, Father. I-I didn't know you were...with someone." He thought he could almost hear the distaste in her voice, even if it was imagined.

"Sansa, is there something you need to tell me?" Eddard moved closer to his daughter, Macon falling even farther away as he had been already forgotten. Ned put his hands on Sansa's shoulders. "What has happened, child?"

"It's...It's Arya." Macon heard the change in Sansa's voice just as he heard the sigh coming from Lord Stark after Sansa had spoken. Macon looked upon the scene, watching with a hidden jealousy as Sansa was comforted by her father. True, he had his mother, and Lady Dahlia was an excellent mother to him, but Macon had always longed for what he would never have...a father.

"Go back to your room, I'll be along shortly and we can talk there, hmm?" Sansa nodded slowly, her eyes catching Macon's as Lord Stark pulled away from her. Eddard saw his daughter's glance over his shoulder and remembered the boy that he had been about to question further. He addressed his daughter once more, the dismissal hidden in politeness with his words. "Sansa, find Septa Mordaine and have her send for anything you need. Tell your sister to behave."

"She won't listen to me."

At the word 'sister' Macon's mind turned back to the small bundle that had been carried away from his mother only hours ago. He started to return back to his task, so that he may be by his mother's side once more, when a knock sounded at the Hand's door.

"My Lord Hand, King Robert requests your presence in the council chamber."

"Of course he does. Sansa, I'll speak with you later." Eddard turned towards the forgotten black-haired squire, "Boy, you are dismissed."

Macon did not speak in return, only nodded his head as he wondered why Varys would put this man in his path. Wondering what the Spider could gain by exposing him to the new Hand. Macon willed his gaze to stay down as he passed by Sansa, but his traitorous eyes would not obey. She did not seem to notice him as he left, but for some reason Macon had already memorized everything about the Hand's daughter.

Macon had seen plenty of beautiful ladies before, but they had all been ruined by the games played in court, they'd been broken, ruined or otherwise. This girl, the one with the hair like fire, was so untainted that she shone in Macon's eyes like no other before. The boy shook his head, clearing his mind of the romantic thoughts that would lead him nowhere. He was only Macon, King of the Bacon, bastard of the King and Lord of no Lands...Sansa Stark was a lady, and ladies as pretty and highborn as she, would never even dare speak to a bastard, let alone look his way.

Obediently, Macon left the Hand's tower and went back to him and his mother's apartments.

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The moment Macon entered the apartments, he wished he hadn't left. The beautiful Sansa Stark was forgotten as he stood by the door. He could hear his mother weeping from her chambers, and briefly he wondered where his little brother or sister was now. They were probably being prepared, cleaned so they would be ready for the journey to Gallowsgrey in the Storm Lands, where Lord Godfrey's family seat was located. He hoped his mother got to say goodbye properly. She would like that.

Then he wondered where that bloody maester was so he could knock out his teeth for allowing his mother to weep so brokenly.

Macon looked at his feet in shame. His mother needed him, and he'd left her to aid some shadowy Spider he didn't even like. The young man took a step forward and his eyes caught dark boots lying in a pile by the balcony. He almost groaned. Lord Godfrey was back, from a tavern or brother no doubt. The thorny sod had never been tender with his mother, even when she desperately needed tenderness when she was wounded.

He doubted mother's husband would be very kind after yet another 'failure' as he called it. Macon had no power to stop it either; he was weak, powerless when it came to Lord Godfrey's treatment of Lady Dahlia. He was a bastard, and even a king's bastard had no power over his mother's husband. Husband's had authority over their wives, allowed to do with them as they wished and every time he heard Lord Trant drunkenly rage at his mother, heard her cry as he hit her, Macon would clench his fists so tight it hurt, and desperately will himself not to attack the man.

Hesitantly, fearful that Lord Godfrey would be on the other side, he approached his mother's chamber door. The smell of lavender oils made his nose burn immediately. It was so strong that Macon snorted and sneezed as the powerful aroma assaulted his poor nose.

"Smells of death in 'ere," he heard his deep voice mutter from his left. Macon would have scowled if he could. Blinking, he turned towards the lord's voice, scratching his burning nose over the sleeve of his tunic in an effort to expel the itch. "Blood all over the sheets...I told that bloody maester, if it came between the two, save the boy." Macon hated Lord Godfrey far too much to notice that even through his cruelty there was a vulnerability there which only came when a man loses his child.

"Macon," his mother whimpered, sniffling her sobs and clutching the bed linens desperately. Her eyes watered up anew as her only living child entered the room. Gods but she was lucky to have him. Only her sheer absolute love for him could compare to the ugly, blackened despair she felt almost every day.

Her son rushed to her side, ignoring the gangly man sitting despairingly in his chair far from the bed. He touched her arm, wincing as she broke into sobs again. Yes he should have stayed with her. "Mother," _please don't cry_, he wanted to say, but the words lodged in his throat as she wept.

"Get out," Lord Godfrey muttered, so quietly, Macon thought he'd misheard him. He looked towards the lord, and found he was glaring straight at him. "Get out!" he shouted ferociously, springing to his feet. Macon didn't move. He couldn't. He was too shocked at the sudden aggressiveness of the man when he wasn't even drunk. He'd never expected this of Godfrey when his breath was untainted by the stink of wine or ale. "Get out, bastard!" Suddenly, Lord Godfrey rushed him, slamming his hands so hard against his chest that Macon might have fallen if the older man wasn't gripping his tunic so tight. "Get out! _Get out you urchin!"_ he roared in Macon's face, shoving him towards the door.

The bastard boy's wits came back to him, and he shoved back, nearly dislodging the old Lord but not quite. "I won't leave my mother!" he cried back. He wouldn't, not like this, not when she was...but a shell.

"G-God-Godfrey, pl-please, le-leave him be...pl-please, my lord. Let him s-stay..." his mother's fragile voice begged from the bed. Her sobbing had stopped for a moment, but looked ready to start up again at a word.

Godfrey took a look at his wife, and looked back at her bastard. Why did all his babes die, when the king's bastard lived on? He'd resented Macon before, for simply reminding him day after day that his bride had been soiled when he took her. But he loathed him now for surviving when all his children languished. He shoved the boy back in disgust. "It's because of him, y'know?" He shouted at his sniffling wife. If he loved her better, he might have felt ashamed, but he didn't love her any more than he did. "Because of your bastard! You favored him all these years and so the gods have seen fit ta take away all my babes!" With that, leaving his weeping wife and her fuming bastard behind, Lord Godfrey stormed from the chamber.

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**More to come soon my loves ;D**

**Also, Sansa's age has been bumped up a teeny bit, to about 15**


	3. Chapter Two

Hiya! We have returned! :D Geee! THanks so much for the reviews and alerts and favorites! Really warmed our hearts and inspired out minds to continue on ;)

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**Chapter Two**

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Lord Godfrey left them both in a state of mess. His mother's sobs were started anew at his harsh words of blame and Macon was fuming, wanting nothing more than to march after the bitter old man and beat him bloody for blaming his mother, for blaming _him_for things he could not control. But Macon swallowed his rage for another day, and turned to his mother.

"Mother," as he approached the side of her bed, he pulled a nearby chair with him.

"Ma-Macon?" she whimpered out. Dahlia sniffled, trying to stop her weeping.

"I'm here mother." He sat by her bed, not knowing what to say, or do. He wanted to tell her Godfrey's words were false, that she was not to blame and that the loss of all her children was just the terrible hand of fate. But somehow he knew his words would fall dead on the floor between them. Mother would not listen; she'd continue to believe her husband's lies.

Lady Dahlia sniffled and looked up at her son, eyes puffy and red from crying nearly all day, but she managed the tiniest shadow of a smile. Her boy, her sweet, strong, clever son. He was all she had, all she would ever have for herself, it seemed. His heart, although quick to anger, was good, true...pure. Few people saw it, the good in him, few people saw past his birth and into the man behind the anger. Many times she had wept for that, how no matter what he became in life the word 'bastard' would still be sneered behind him. He deserved better, and with all her breath, she would help him to see it.

"Oh, my son," she whispered. Her trembling hand reached up, and quickly, Macon grasped it. "Macon...listen to me." She began gently. All her children were gone, apart from one, and now he had to excel for all of them. "Now you must try _harder_ than ever to prove yourself to your father." Macon worried his lower lip between his blunt teeth.

"Mother," he started. He didn't want to upset her in such a tenuous state, but he couldn't have her believing he could amount to anything either. That would hurt worse in the end. "I'm...I'll never be good enough to be a knight. I'm barely holding on to being a squire." His mother had that gentle, sincere look in her eye.

"Being a knight is but a small thing compared to what you can be. I've always told you, you are the king's first born son, the first he's ever acknowledged as his. Even with that vile boy, that Joffrey, he's never cared for him as he does for you. You have _so_ much potential, my son. _Use_ it."

What did she mean? At most, his status would permit him to be knight, if he were lucky. He would never hold lands, never hold a large title, never be lord of a keep, never marry a woman with a famous name...those honours were meant for his mother's true-born children, not him.

"How?" he asked. "How? I-I'm nothing, I'll never be anything. How can a bastard amount to anything, mother?"

"That is something you must learn for yourself, dear." She replied.

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It had been three days since his mother had lost another child, and three days since the Starks had come into the Red Keep. The halls that had once been quiet were now again thrumming with activity. Macon had wanted nothing more than to stay by his mother's side, to protect his mother from Godfrey's rage, but Ser Loras had need of him with the Hand's tourney fast approaching.

Just thinking of his mother's husband could make Macon's blood heat, make his fists ache for a fight. _Calm yourself_, his mother would say_, calm yourself my sweet boy_. Macon closed his eyes for but a second as he traveled along through the Red Keep in search of Ser Loras. With the Tourney of the Hand so near, Macon knew that his knight would need his service, no matter how terrible a squire he was.

He turned a corner and opened his eyes, the golden sunshine beaming beautifully into the hall from the open courtyard. Macon expected the hall to only be brimming with squires and servants and lesser nobles on a pleasant stroll, but of all the hallways in the Red Keep, there Prince Joffrey was, his loyal dog only a few paces behind. Macon's fists clenched. He and Joffrey had never got on, not for a single moment. That golden haired twat had a poisonous tongue and more than once, Macon had to fight the urge to cut it from his younger brother's head.

To his displeasure, the prince turned in his direction, eyes narrowing in distaste, but his lips tweaking into a superior grin. How could they share the same father? Macon would often ask himself. Joffrey walked towards him, followed by the Hound that was never far away. Macon tried to make a quick, quiet, exit to avoid any dealing with Joffrey, just as he always had, but it seemed that this day would be one were Joffrey chose to speak to Macon. He preferred the days when Joffrey would pass him by, turning his nose up, finding the bastard boy to be beneath him. The Prince came to stand just before Macon. He was shorter than Macon, but the young boy always thought himself to be untouchable.

"Look, Dog, seems this one still lives here." Joffrey shifted his weight to one leg, cocking the other and placing his hands on his sword, a sword that Macon knew had never seen battle nor would it ever. Macon stopped before the prince as he spoke, even though it made his stomach roll to do so. The last time the bastard had ignored the prince when he spoke to him, Macon's mother was berated for raising a '_disrespectful little animal' _as the queen said. So Macon stood, and tried to block out Joffrey's words, but to no avail.

"I would have thought your mother would have thrown you out. With a new baby to care for, you'd just get in her way." Macon remained silent, knowing that Joffrey would have already heard the whispers through the Keep of Lady Dahlia's recent still-born. If he spoke against the boy in front of him, it would only encourage Joffrey to stay and say more to provoke him. When Macon did not respond, Joffrey looked as if he was about to leave but paused, a feigned look of thoughtfulness on his face. "Unless...your whore of a mother lost _another_ bastard? Maybe it wasn't born still at all." Macon continued to stare forward, to think of anything but the words that Joffrey was speaking, to ignore the cruel words that fell from the boy's lips with a joyous tone. "Such a shame. I pity her husband, really. He's the man who had to marry a spoiled woman and raise her bastard son." Joffrey saw the way that Macon was struggling to hold back his anger, and was surprised that he had been able to for so long. The Prince moved closer to Macon, dropping his voice to a whisper. "I can't believe Father would ever lay with filth like your mother, and keep a gutter rat like you aroun—."

As soon as his fist had made contact with the Prince's cheek, Macon was already sprinting away as fast as his legs would carry him. He had never struck Joffrey before, _never_. Not even when father had put them together in sparring practice had Macon ever dared hit the prince. He had wanted to, so many times over the years he'd lost count, but never had Macon been stupid enough to actually do it. He heard the younger boy's shouts echoing through the halls as he ran, the threat of the Hound or worse spurring him on, pushing through the fire burning in his lungs and the aching in his legs. He had the advantage of speed but if the Hound were to catch him, Macon would surely lose his life. And so he ran, not caring where his legs took him, not daring to glance behind to see if he was still being chased.

He did not notice where he was running to until he rounded a corner and saw her once more, her auburn red hair so distinctive he knew her at once.

Sansa Stark.

Macon slowed his pace, coming to a halt beside the Lady and her Septa. The pair looked upon him without a word as he gasped and struggled to slow his breathing enough to speak. Seeing her had struck him with an idea. He did not know much of the new Hand, but if the tales of Eddard Stark's just nature were true, maybe he would help him survive whatever death Joffrey and his mother would plan for him now.

"My-my la-ady." He panted eyes on Sansa's bewildered face. "Lo-ord. Sta-ark?"

Sansa paused, frowning delicately at the boy in front of her. She remembered him; he had been speaking with her father in their chambers when they first arrived three days before. She hadn't heard his name, but knew his face.

"My Father is with the small council, planning for his Tourney." She finally answered. Macon felt his heart stop. Gods he was in for it now.

"Thank you, my lady," he managed. Macon averted his eyes from the pretty girl before him. He'd better leave quickly, lest the Hound find him and get Lady Sansa caught in his path.

"Excuse me, Ser?" her sweet voice addressed. Macon turned his blue eyes to Sansa Stark's face, surprised she was addressing him. Didn't she know he was a bastard? For one small moment, he believed she didn't. She was talking to him in spite of his birth, she was looking at him, giving him her time, all knowing what he was—"What's your name? I did not hear you introduce yourself before." And just like that, Macon's hopes died.

"I..." what should he tell her? Tell her he was a squire? Maybe she'd like him as Loras Tyrell's squire, because all the girls loved Loras Tyrell and his pretty face. Maybe he...no, he realized. He didn't want to see the look of distaste he saw on all noble girls' faces when they learned he was King Robert's bastard. But he couldn't lie to her either, her innocent eyes blinked widely at him, and he could not take advantage of her easy trust. So he decided to just be Macon, bastard of the king, what he was in all his entirety. He'd be honest in what he was, unlike so many others. "My name is Macon, my lady…I'm the king's bastard son." He answered shyly, his blue eyes drifting to her feet, not wanting to see her distaste.

Sansa's eyes widened and her mouth fell open into a very unladylike gape. She didn't know King Robert had a...a natural born son in the Red Keep that was not born from the Queen, let alone one dressed so fine. He must be noble born; stewards never wore such fine clothes. A flash of Jon Snow came to Sansa's mind, thinking of the bastard her father had kept so close to their family, even when her mother had not wanted it...wanted _him_. Could it be that Robert had done the same to Cersei as Ned had done to Catelyn? Sansa couldn't imagine a King to behave in that way towards his Queen. Weren't Kings meant to withhold honor and gallantry above all else? Even though her father had only been thinking of honor, bringing a bastard into your home would only bring trouble. And watching as the Hound approached, Sansa could only guess that the bastard boy before her had brought some sort of trouble. The Hound walked closer, his heavy steps sounding like death approaching.

"Come with me, boy. I won't be chasing you like a—"

"Dog?" Macon seemed to have changed in an instant before Sansa's eyes. Not a second ago Macon had been shy, docile, and now as he faced the Hound, a man that Sansa would admit to fearing, the boy became fearless, brave. Joffrey, her beloved prince, hadn't been brave that day on the Kingsroad when Arya hit him and Nymeria attacked him. _He wasn't expecting Arya to attack him_, she thought quickly to defend her prince, _Macon probably gets into fights all the time_.

Sansa locked eyes with Macon for a moment, seeing the slight flush to his cheeks and thinking it from the running he had clearly just been doing. In truth, when Macon caught Sansa's gaze, it brought a longing to the boy that made his blood heat and his body react. It was not lust, for he knew very well what that felt like, but this was more of a longing for the innocence that Sansa represented...the innocence that the King's acknowledged bastard was never able to possess. Macon quickly looked to the Hound before speaking once more. "Someone will want an audience with me, I suppose?"

The Hound remained silent, but Macon was not really expecting an answer from Joffrey's personal guard. Macon looked back to Sansa once more, not knowing if he was being taken to his death or worse. If it was the Queen that he would be taken to, it would mean his end. It would mean his mother's end. Macon hurt to think of his mother, to think of what she would do without him by her side, and so he settled on Sansa's sweet face before him. Macon extended his hand towards Sansa, his palm up in a silent invitation for her hand.

"We should be going now, Sansa." The sharp voice of the Septa cut through the halls but Macon paid no mind. Sansa hesitated for only a moment before gingerly offering Macon her hand. He brought her hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss upon her knuckles in the way a Lord would have bid farewell to his Lady. He released her hand just as the Hound took hold of his tunic, already being drug away to whatever fate the Gods, or the Queen, had chosen.

"Good day, Lady Sansa." His voice trailed behind him, and Macon could not turn to see if she had even heard his words at all.

"What a strange boy." Sansa spoke aloud, not really expecting Septa Mordane to listen to her musings. She felt the Septa's grip on her arm, steering her back towards their destination.

"A strange 'bastard' boy indeed, Sansa. Best forget about that boy and his games." Sansa stopped walking, turning her head sharply to look at the older woman.

"Games?" Septa Mordane pulled her along once again, even as Sansa did not turn her head forward in favor of keeping her questioning gaze firmly on her Septa's face. The older woman lowered her voice as they continued to walk through the halls of the Red Keep.

"Of course, Sansa. Oh, you are too young to know the way a boy thinks." Sansa stopped her Septa once more, firmly planting her feet into the stone below her.

"Stop speaking in riddles and just tell me. What games is that boy playing?" Mordaine sighed before pulling Sansa towards a stone bench, seating the girl down before sitting herself. Sansa was losing patience with the old woman who continued to treat her like a child.

"The entire realm knows that you are betrothed to Joffrey, his younger, _true born_ brother and _heir_ to a kingdom that he thinks to be his." Sansa wore a look of disbelief on her face at what her Septa was implying. The old woman continued, trying to be delicate with her words as her charge was a good little lady and knew nothing about these kinds of affairs. "That bastard boy only wants to toy with you to spite his brother, the Prince. Do you think he would take such an interest in you otherwise?" Sansa narrowed her eyes slightly at her Septa. As innocent as she was, she still knew an insult when she heard one.

"Did any boys ever take interest in you, Septa? Could it possibly be that he isn't playing a game and was just being nice? He doesn't have to...he was just being nice." Sansa stood, and without another word to her Septa set off down the hall in the direction that she had just come. In the same direction that a nice bastard boy had just been taken.

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It was a surprise for Macon to find himself being led—rather yanked along— to where he knew were the King's private quarters. He caught the eyes of Jaime Lannister as he passed through the door, the man looking no less haughty than normal. The Hound released Macon's arm, and the boy continued to make his way before the King who was seated at his desk. The Queen stood to Robert's right, and Joffrey stood to his mother's right, rather than beside his father as any self-respecting man would have done. Macon held his gaze forward, refusing to back down in what he thought were his final moments of freedom.

"You've been getting into fights again, boy?"

"Yes, Your Grace." Robert bit back a bark of laughter, taking a deep drink of wine as he took in the sight of his bastard son. He was just like that, at Macon's age. Black haired, blue eyed, built like an ox, it was easy to see who the boy's father truly was. But it was Macon's temper and his strength that made Robert proud that he had fathered the boy. Whereas Joffrey was most like his mother, Macon favored his father. Robert pushed himself forward in his chair before he spoke.

"I told you the last time, to pick your fights wisely. Stable boys, squires, stewards. Not the fucking heir to the throne." Robert settled back into his chair, Cersei's smile growing wider with each word the King spoke. Macon could see the victory on her face, could just imagine what she would say to his mother once he was in chains or put to death. Robert picked up his cup and stared over the rim at Macon, watching him standing calmly as if he was not there facing charges of treason. Macon's eyes remained locked on the King as he spoke, brave, unblinking.

"And your fight, your rebellion was that chosen wisely?" Robert put his cup down, his face darkening in an instant. Macon continued on, his voice never wavering. "Or was that fight chosen to defend the one you loved? Did Prince Joffrey mention why I struck him, and oh, yes I did." His eyes flashed to the queen, almost challenging, before he quickly looked back to his father. "Would you care to hear the words that he spoke?" Macon did not give Robert or Cersei or Joffrey time to respond. "_'Your whore of a mother lose another bastard? I can't believe Father ever would lie with filth like your mother. I pity her husband—'_"

"ENOUGH!" Robert's face colored purple. He did not love Dahlia, but the son she gave him softened his heart to her. He would not abide his own son to taunt her name, her pain. He turned slightly to face where Joffrey stood. "Did you say those things? Answer me, boy!" Joffrey's eyes were wide and fearful, shocked his father was taking the bastard's side. Sometimes the boy forgot the bastard was his father's bastard.

"I'm sure Joffrey meant no harm." Cersei wrapped her arm around Joffrey's shoulders. "Boys are not very careful with their words. Just as bastards are not careful with their fists."

"Quiet, woman! Seven Hells, if it weren't for your father's sudden change of heart, that bastard," Robert thrust a finger in Macon's direction, "would be my heir. I have half a mind to make it so. He acted like a true King would by defending his family's honor. While that fucking boy," Robert now pointed at Joffrey, who had backed away slightly from his angered father, "spat out taunts. Tell me which one seems more like a fucking Baratheon heir, and which one seems like a Lannister so of full of himself, he thinks he shits gold?" The tension grew thick in the air after Robert had spoken. Macon was grateful that no others were in the room to hear Robert speak like this. He knew that it would lead to more trouble, but he couldn't help the feeling of pride welling inside him upon hearing Robert's words. Macon tried to remember every word spoken so that he could tell his mother, so that she would know how Robert truly felt. The King stood from his chair, ignoring Cersei and Joffrey in favor of turning his attention fully on to Macon. Robert's voice had lowered again as he spoke, calm, but threatening all the same.

"Strike the Prince again, and I won't be so lenient. Go tend to your mother, boy."

Macon did not dare look towards the Queen as he gave a bow of his head towards his father. He felt numb and relived and invincible all at once as he made his way to the door, noticing that it was left slightly ajar. He pushed it open and exited, only to find Ser Jaime standing in his way. The Kingslayer stood before him in his full armor, his hand on the pommel of his sword in an attempt to intimidate. The effect was lost on Macon, who in that moment felt as if he had faced and conquered death itself.

"Ser Jaime." Macon nodded his head in the knight's direction before moving around the larger man, never noticing the way Jaime's grip tightened on his sword. The Kingslayer turned his head to the side, catching Macon's retreating form from the corner of his eye.

It wasn't that he hated the boy...but Jaime was willing to go to whatever extreme was needed to protect the ones he loved, from pain, from death, all of it. A haunting memory came back to him. He remembered with perfect clarity the sound of that boy's body hitting the ground. _I had to do it_, was the mantra he thought every time something like guilt crept up on him. He would have gotten Cersei killed, would have gotten their children killed. He had to do it. Jaime shook his head to get the image from his mind of Bran Stark falling helplessly through the air, the image haunting his sleepless nights. He tried to replace the images with ones of Cersei, of their time spent alone together, but even those memories could not block out the fear that he had seen showing through Bran's eyes. The sound of his name brought the Kingslayer from his torturous musings.

"Have you gone deaf? I said, move Kingslayer!" Jaime moved away on instinct hearing Robert's words, fully intending on following his King. Robert put his hand out to halt Jaime, turning so that the two men nearly stood toe to toe. "Don't follow me. I've had enough of seeing your smug face for one day." Jaime offered Robert a smile and a nod of his head.

"Of course, Your Grace." Robert stared hard at Jaime, the two remaining in silence for only a moment before the King uttered a curse and stormed off. Another moment passed and Joffrey slowly made his way out of the room, the bruise already forming on the Prince's pale face. Joffrey saw the way that Jaime was looking at him, looking straight at the purple mark on his cheek, and hurried away. The Kingslayer wanted nothing more than to take Joffrey aside and teach him how a man would have handled being struck, wanted to play the role that a father should. He heard the distinct walk of Cersei approaching from behind but Jaime did not turn to face her, instead choosing to stare after the form of his retreating son.

"You heard everything, didn't you?" Although she phrased it as a question Jaime knew it to be a simple observation and did not respond, waiting for his love to continue to speak as he knew she would. Her voice lowered, barely above a whisper, as she came to stand beside Jaime. "There are still threats to us living in these walls. Jon Arryn was an old fool and he was able to figure it out. What will happen when Lord Eddard Stark starts asking the same questions?"

"I know, Cersei. Do you think I've just been walking these halls waiting for that moment?" Jaime's voice was as low as hers. "There are certain precautions that we will just have to take to make sure that Lord Stark doesn't get...curious. That bastard is trouble for us, Cersei. Now more than ever."

"Don't you think I've tried to be rid of him? That black-haired, foul boy has taunted me every day he shows his face in these halls." Cersei tried not to think of her own black-haired son that she could not even give a name. It was because Macon had lived while her babe had not that Cersei would always be reminded of the one thing she failed at, the one moment where she had brought shame and disappointment to her family. Even after all the years had passed, Cersei still carried the blame inside her for not being able to make her first-born son live. Cersei stood closer to her twin, wanting to feel his presence near her in her moment of weakness. Their eyes locked and the both of them wanted nothing more than to hold each other close. Knowing it was too much of a risk to be seen so close to Jaime, Cersei focused her thoughts once more on the newest problem they would be facing. "It will be nearly impossible to ever be rid of him while Robert is alive. He's more attached to his bastard son than his true born children."

"But they aren't really his true born children." Jaime couldn't help pointing out.

"I want them to be his only _known_ children in the Keep. It is just too dangerous for Joffrey to have that bastard so close to the throne. He wants it Jaime, that bastard. He wants the throne for himself, I can see it."

"What do you suggest we do?" Cersei brought her hand up to softly cup Jaime's face in her palm, running her thumb across his cheek with affection.

"We are _lions_, they are stags. We rule the beasts. I'm sure we can think of something."

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